Name: Albiorix (Not to be called this, he does not really give out his name and so few know it)
Nickname/Alias:"Grey", Corpse-eater, etc. He cares little for names, what you call him is of no concern
Gender: Male
Race: Dark Elf
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 180
Hair: White, streaks of silver, Long and in a ponytail in the back. (Not noticeable if the hood is up)
Eyes: Red iris
Skin: Black as night
Identifying Marks: His black skin, and grey tattoos.
Appearance: Wears a patched grey robe, made of many skins, that is very worn. If not this, then a more elegant grey robe with red trim. Although not visible, he has intricate GRAY tattoos that come up to his cheeks.
Strengths:
These first two are under both strength, and weakness. He feels nothing physically, and emotionally. He will not be hindered by pain in a battle, so attacks had better be damaging to body functions. Many fights are won through pain, one giving into it, and yielding, or faltering. Without emotion, he cannot have his mind clouded by anger, love, etc. By doing so, he is able to think clearly in dire situations.
He is quick, not overly muscular, and prefers to fight with a rapier.
His armor is 'fused' (for lack of a better term) to his flesh. He may not take it off, and so, it is on constantly. It is hidden underneath his cloak, to cover the main weakness that the armor has, explained below. He is able to use the armor almost like a shield, bending his arms at certain angles to deflect blows.
He has a lot of knowledge in the anatomy of the creatures of Altera. He often states that "The body is filled with weakness," simply because it is. He is well aware of the points to strike on the body that greatly damage it, or put it temporarily out of use.
Weaknesses and fears:
Due to the lack of feeling, he is unaware that he may be coming to harm. His hand could be on fire, and he may not notice, which would ruin the hand greatly.
His lack of emotion makes him 'cold'. Few people like him, if any, and so few may come to his aid if called upon.
His armor, although quite useful, has one main flaw. Anywhere where flexibility is require, it does not exist. The joints are unprotected, which is why he wears the grey cloak to hide these spots.
His fighting style with the Rapier isn't very effective against heavily armored opponents. He no longer has arms, though he has made 'adjustments' because of this.
Religion and cults:
It could be said that he serves the Grey Lady, the Goddess of death, but that is not entirely true. He views Death to be something of a God in its own self, and that the Alteran Gods are not of importance. Death is a sort of enlightenment... and the attainment of all knowledge. To him, the sisterhood is an abomination, and insult to death.
Profession:
You could call him a healer, although he does not often use his knowledge of anatomy to heal the wounded. He usually uses it to kill the victim instead. However, if approached, and asked to heal someone, he will do it to the best of his ability, but there is always a price. The price is not in gold, and it may seem severe to many. Story: He sat there watching the scenes in front of him. The pub was not the cleanest of places, the floor boards were stained from all the ale that was spilled on them each night, crumbs of food littered the floor and tables, and cobwebs hung in each corner of the room. Many of the people inside sat close to the fire, warming themselves from what he assumed to be a cold winter's night. He sat at a distance from most, a small table located in one of the corners. The town where the pub was located was quite small, located deep in the forest, on a lonely road. A mere thirty souls resided in the town, and few visitors ever passed by.
He could see everything that took place from this spot, studying everything that was happening in the room. The men arguing over small matters that seemed of great importance to themselves, the bartender handing out drinks to men who could hardly stand already. Most were blind to the fact that he even sat in the corner, watching them all in their foolishness. All except the bartender's daughter, who seemed to make her way to his table every time he came. At one time he attempted to get rid of her, however, this proved to be futile, so he let her stay as she asked her questions.
She was a foolish girl, often asking the same question again, and he always gave the same answer. "Please sir, what is your name? will you not tell me?" she asked, as she slid onto the adjacent seat once more. She had brought him a drink, she often did, in an attempt to get a different answer for once. He replied, "Who I am... is irrelevant, it is what people are that matters." She frowned, and continued to try having a conversation with the dark elf. He would give his illusive answers as the night continued, until all had gone except for him. He would then stand and exit, not returning for a few days, then one day, he would be sitting at the same table, and watch the events once more.
There came a night, not unlike the others in anyway, where he sat in the same place as always, watching. It was another cold night, judging by how all the men wore thick coats as they stood near the fire, drinking their ale. "Their last ale," he thought to himself. The wind was howling outside as small snowflakes whiled about, some sneaking under the door, and melting on the floor. As the men argued over their petty issues, and they always did, the doors flew open, and a gust of wind raced through the room, causing the candles to flicker. Nine grey cloaked men stepped through the door, as one of the drunken fools shouted, "Oi, close that door ye fools, its cold out the---" But his words were cut off as the first of the grey cloaked men reached him.
The men behind him stared at the tip of the sword that was sticking out of the man's back in complete shock. The sword slid out of the man, and he fell in a heap on the floor, blood staining the wood on the floor. The grey cloaked man who held the sword stated clearly, "Yield or Die." in a voice that showed no other option. The other eight grey cloaks unsheathed their blades in unison, ready for any who resisted, however, none did. He watched as they gathered up all in the pub, except for himself, and they forced them outside into the supposedly cold night. When the pub was empty, he then stood, and walked outside, and looked at the entire village, now lined up in the ever increasing snow. Some stood shivering, others crying, and some with blank faces, unaware as to what was happening. The grey cloaks stood watching over them, swords drawn, if any got the urge to run. The grey cloak who had killed the man approached him, nodding his head. "We have all thirty.. Twenty-nine, not counting the dead man, what shall we do?"
He looked over at the villagers, those he had been examining for a month, then said, "None of them are worthy. It is only their resources we require. We must not be known, so kill them all," he answered. The man simply nodded once more, walked over to the group, and ordered them into nine lines, a row for each of the grey cloaks. The people were still unaware, and to confused to organize themselves. The grey cloaks then bound one to the next, so they could not run. The grey, for that is what they called him, then walked over, and watched as the grey cloaks began cutting down the villagers, those he had been watching for several weeks. The drunken fools died screaming, the bartender begged for mercy for his daughter, who was next in the line. The grey cloak of that line cut him down as he begged, but before he could kill the girl the grey grabbed his arm before he could strike. The man moved aside. The Grey looked down into the eyes of the girl who had attempted to show him kindness. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, drawing out an ancient stone rapier. A different sort of chill crept about the area, it was a chill that stole one's warmth, a chill one would feel upon death. He placed the blade to her neck, and she cried out "WHO ARE YOU?" tears rolling down her face. He replied "As I have said...It is not who I am that matters...but what I am." and then he cut her neck, and the last of the villagers died.
And here is an attempt at drawing his face.
Nickname/Alias:"Grey", Corpse-eater, etc. He cares little for names, what you call him is of no concern
Gender: Male
Race: Dark Elf
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 180
Hair: White, streaks of silver, Long and in a ponytail in the back. (Not noticeable if the hood is up)
Eyes: Red iris
Skin: Black as night
Identifying Marks: His black skin, and grey tattoos.
Appearance: Wears a patched grey robe, made of many skins, that is very worn. If not this, then a more elegant grey robe with red trim. Although not visible, he has intricate GRAY tattoos that come up to his cheeks.
Strengths:
These first two are under both strength, and weakness. He feels nothing physically, and emotionally. He will not be hindered by pain in a battle, so attacks had better be damaging to body functions. Many fights are won through pain, one giving into it, and yielding, or faltering. Without emotion, he cannot have his mind clouded by anger, love, etc. By doing so, he is able to think clearly in dire situations.
He is quick, not overly muscular, and prefers to fight with a rapier.
His armor is 'fused' (for lack of a better term) to his flesh. He may not take it off, and so, it is on constantly. It is hidden underneath his cloak, to cover the main weakness that the armor has, explained below. He is able to use the armor almost like a shield, bending his arms at certain angles to deflect blows.
He has a lot of knowledge in the anatomy of the creatures of Altera. He often states that "The body is filled with weakness," simply because it is. He is well aware of the points to strike on the body that greatly damage it, or put it temporarily out of use.
Weaknesses and fears:
Due to the lack of feeling, he is unaware that he may be coming to harm. His hand could be on fire, and he may not notice, which would ruin the hand greatly.
His lack of emotion makes him 'cold'. Few people like him, if any, and so few may come to his aid if called upon.
His armor, although quite useful, has one main flaw. Anywhere where flexibility is require, it does not exist. The joints are unprotected, which is why he wears the grey cloak to hide these spots.
His fighting style with the Rapier isn't very effective against heavily armored opponents. He no longer has arms, though he has made 'adjustments' because of this.
Religion and cults:
It could be said that he serves the Grey Lady, the Goddess of death, but that is not entirely true. He views Death to be something of a God in its own self, and that the Alteran Gods are not of importance. Death is a sort of enlightenment... and the attainment of all knowledge. To him, the sisterhood is an abomination, and insult to death.
Profession:
You could call him a healer, although he does not often use his knowledge of anatomy to heal the wounded. He usually uses it to kill the victim instead. However, if approached, and asked to heal someone, he will do it to the best of his ability, but there is always a price. The price is not in gold, and it may seem severe to many. Story: He sat there watching the scenes in front of him. The pub was not the cleanest of places, the floor boards were stained from all the ale that was spilled on them each night, crumbs of food littered the floor and tables, and cobwebs hung in each corner of the room. Many of the people inside sat close to the fire, warming themselves from what he assumed to be a cold winter's night. He sat at a distance from most, a small table located in one of the corners. The town where the pub was located was quite small, located deep in the forest, on a lonely road. A mere thirty souls resided in the town, and few visitors ever passed by.
He could see everything that took place from this spot, studying everything that was happening in the room. The men arguing over small matters that seemed of great importance to themselves, the bartender handing out drinks to men who could hardly stand already. Most were blind to the fact that he even sat in the corner, watching them all in their foolishness. All except the bartender's daughter, who seemed to make her way to his table every time he came. At one time he attempted to get rid of her, however, this proved to be futile, so he let her stay as she asked her questions.
She was a foolish girl, often asking the same question again, and he always gave the same answer. "Please sir, what is your name? will you not tell me?" she asked, as she slid onto the adjacent seat once more. She had brought him a drink, she often did, in an attempt to get a different answer for once. He replied, "Who I am... is irrelevant, it is what people are that matters." She frowned, and continued to try having a conversation with the dark elf. He would give his illusive answers as the night continued, until all had gone except for him. He would then stand and exit, not returning for a few days, then one day, he would be sitting at the same table, and watch the events once more.
There came a night, not unlike the others in anyway, where he sat in the same place as always, watching. It was another cold night, judging by how all the men wore thick coats as they stood near the fire, drinking their ale. "Their last ale," he thought to himself. The wind was howling outside as small snowflakes whiled about, some sneaking under the door, and melting on the floor. As the men argued over their petty issues, and they always did, the doors flew open, and a gust of wind raced through the room, causing the candles to flicker. Nine grey cloaked men stepped through the door, as one of the drunken fools shouted, "Oi, close that door ye fools, its cold out the---" But his words were cut off as the first of the grey cloaked men reached him.
The men behind him stared at the tip of the sword that was sticking out of the man's back in complete shock. The sword slid out of the man, and he fell in a heap on the floor, blood staining the wood on the floor. The grey cloaked man who held the sword stated clearly, "Yield or Die." in a voice that showed no other option. The other eight grey cloaks unsheathed their blades in unison, ready for any who resisted, however, none did. He watched as they gathered up all in the pub, except for himself, and they forced them outside into the supposedly cold night. When the pub was empty, he then stood, and walked outside, and looked at the entire village, now lined up in the ever increasing snow. Some stood shivering, others crying, and some with blank faces, unaware as to what was happening. The grey cloaks stood watching over them, swords drawn, if any got the urge to run. The grey cloak who had killed the man approached him, nodding his head. "We have all thirty.. Twenty-nine, not counting the dead man, what shall we do?"
He looked over at the villagers, those he had been examining for a month, then said, "None of them are worthy. It is only their resources we require. We must not be known, so kill them all," he answered. The man simply nodded once more, walked over to the group, and ordered them into nine lines, a row for each of the grey cloaks. The people were still unaware, and to confused to organize themselves. The grey cloaks then bound one to the next, so they could not run. The grey, for that is what they called him, then walked over, and watched as the grey cloaks began cutting down the villagers, those he had been watching for several weeks. The drunken fools died screaming, the bartender begged for mercy for his daughter, who was next in the line. The grey cloak of that line cut him down as he begged, but before he could kill the girl the grey grabbed his arm before he could strike. The man moved aside. The Grey looked down into the eyes of the girl who had attempted to show him kindness. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, drawing out an ancient stone rapier. A different sort of chill crept about the area, it was a chill that stole one's warmth, a chill one would feel upon death. He placed the blade to her neck, and she cried out "WHO ARE YOU?" tears rolling down her face. He replied "As I have said...It is not who I am that matters...but what I am." and then he cut her neck, and the last of the villagers died.
And here is an attempt at drawing his face.
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